As a rose she stands alone. Her inner
Scanty is unknown. Unless you see
Her, touch her, and smell you'll
Never know her very well.

You say you see her standing there.
You smell her aroma fill the air, but
Do you really or just pose to care.

She asks you please explain to her
What her appearance seems to be, and
Yet the words you seem to speak
Have yet to make her think of herself

She seems to have heard these words before
Thorns and thistles nothing more. And as
She tries to make her presence known she's
Still a rose all alone.